


Seasons Die

by cinnamondonut (cinnamxn)



Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime 1990)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Everything is vague nothing is really too clear, Gen, Missing Persons, More of an Imagine than a real piece of writing, Possible Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-05-16 23:28:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19328284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamxn/pseuds/cinnamondonut
Summary: Snufkin doesn't return.





	Seasons Die

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: [ C0bbleth0t](https://instagram.com/c0bbleth0t?igshid=gfqbjvbbk87) on Instagram made a really cute comic based on this fic. You should really go check it out and support their art. I'll be keeping a log of all the parts here as it posts, but if you follow them you should be able to track it easier. 
> 
>  
> 
> [1](https://www.instagram.com/p/B1O97lrARNu/?igshid=1uzi908ff3u8w) | [2](https://www.instagram.com/p/B1S0TABAPEU/?igshid=1wt8n63vthoa9) | [3](https://www.instagram.com/p/B1nmmyPFndC/)

The snow melts into dew drops on fresh blades of grass and flowers sprout at the edges of the river, but spring does not come to Moominvalley. At least, it does not for Moomin, not so long as the tree by the bridge has no tent to shade, not so long as the fish pass through the river undisturbed. All the things that make spring truly wonderful are nothing but pointless fluff; it’s the return of Snufkin that heralds spring. No matter how much colour spreads along the valley, no matter how warm and peaceful the weather becomes, there is no Snufkin this spring. It's ever so gloomy; far worse than even the winter, somehow, in this season that is supposed to belong to them. Moomin feels much too depressed for fun and play, and he watches an empty bridge from his window most days. 

By the time summer heat sets in, Moomin has adjusted to the company of his friends once again. His heart aches; there’s something crucial missing from it. Waiting around for the whole season will do him no good. He spent way too many nights and days crying, and resolved instead to checking the bridge and the mailbox once a day. Just in case. His heart grows wearier some days, with longing and dread, but other days it strengthens from all the pain it’s learned to endure. He reads Snufkin's last letters over and over. They're a small comfort, but the voice in his head is becoming foggier - it's only a ghost, the memory of Snufkin's real voice growing distant. He tries to recall details about his face and clothes. He whistles familiar songs. 

In a blur of brown and orange it becomes autumn. A pile of leaves sits beneath a tree where a tent would be, and for a moment Moomin’s eyes deceive him. There’s no sign of Snufkin; and Moomin reads the last letter once again on its anniversary. _Cheerio, As you know I must be alone for a while. Hibernate well. Don’t worry about me. Snufkin_. He doesn’t trust that Snufkin will return that June. A horrible feeling settles, his nightmares confirm the worst, and he longs to turn the clock back to before Snufkin left. He didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye.

His mama and papa go to sleep the day before snow falls from the sky, but Moomin is long gone before that time can come. He takes with him a backpack and a scarf, and heads South with all the hope he has left. He finds that travelling in the winter is tiresome work, and as much as he longs to find Snufkin, his eyes demand that he burrow down and sleep. The sun wakes him much too quickly, and he struggles with his understanding of berries and mushrooms to keep himself fed. There’s shells and rocks and gold to trade with – food, mostly, but some demand it for information. All sorts of folks who have recognised a fellow in an old green hat, who can point him this way or that. It’s scary, but it’s also exciting. Moomin sees things he could never imagine – new flowers, new people, new lands, new cultures. Amongst all that which is new and fantastic and bold, Moomin does not find anything or anyone familiar.

Spring comes again much too fast. Each songbird, each crack of the frosted rivers, each child who giggles and plays foreshadows a failure Moomin does not wish to accept. It seems, at times, as if his heart is absorbing all the harsh cold, and the first time he hears a townsperson refer to the day as spring his heart shatters and the cold freezes over his lungs, too, and he heaves and cries. He couldn’t find Snufkin.

After spending a whole season travelling, it takes another to get back, and he returns home to his parents in the summer. There’s so much warmth and love that he cries all over again, and they cry too, and so does everybody else who hears of Moomin’s adventure. Until Midsummer, at least, where he tells another side to the adventure before the orange glow of the bonfire. He spins exciting tales of strange lands and strange faces, and although there’s some sadness to it, they only turn it to happier stories. They freely talk about a tramp in green and a tent and a fishing rod and a harmonica that they may never see again, and create all manner of ridiculous tales around where their friend might be. Though a part of them knows it’s unrealistic, the stories bring warmth back to the gaping hole in all of their hearts.

In Autumn, they fall asleep without expectations, and only a touch of hope. There may never again be a fishermen camping in the valley, playing spring tunes when they awake. They are prepared for this, and prepared to be happy in spite of it.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry.


End file.
